Pray for Us Sinners
by EveryDarkCorner
Summary: Dick goes to confession and admits his attraction for Slade. His priest turns out to be a little ... unconventional. SladeDick / Dubcon / Sacrilegious blowjobs


It's blowjobs. It's just SladeDick blowjobs in a confession booth, because I am a filthy sinner and you're all coming down with me. Enjoy! :)

* * *

Forty damn minutes.

Dick had been waiting in this cramped, musty box in the dark for forty damn minutes.

And now he was going to have to say a million Hail Marys for thinking the word 'damn' in a confession booth. Twice.

He dropped his head into his hands. _This is stupid._ Mom always uses to say confession made her feel better, but right now Dick mostly just felt sick. Besides, the priest wasn't coming, even though Dick had seen him—in dark clothes with white hair—messing with something in the pulpit as he walked in.

But there were other people in the church, wandering around and speaking softly. Maybe the priest was busy. Maybe he'd just seen the panic on Dick's face and decided he didn't want to deal with _that_ mess today.

Either way, he wasn't coming.

Stomach tight, Dick got up.

A shadow passed over the curtain, and then light spilled through the screen on Dick's right as the priest took his place in the other side of the confession booth. The curtain hissed as he closed it on his side, dropping them both back into darkness.

Dick hesitated, then sat back down. 'Bless me, Father, I have sinned.' His voice was croaky, and he realised a moment too late he'd forgotten to cross himself. He made the sign of the cross hastily. 'It's been, um. A long time. Since my last confession.' He hesitated, and the priest said nothing. 'About ten years, I think. Not since I was a kid.'

The priest was only a vague shadow through the screen, but he looked as though he was sitting up straight, listening closely. Outside the booth, a woman laughed and Dick shrank into his seat. _She can't hear. She's not listening._

But what if she was?

If someone recognised him as Bruce Wayne's ward ... or worse, as Nightwing ...

Dick ground his teeth. _Start talking or walk out._

'I've been having ... bad thoughts.' He swallowed. His leg moved, heel tapping a fast rhythm on the floor, and suddenly his breath was shaky.

He must've been quiet for too long, because the priest said, 'What kind of thoughts?'

His voice was very soft, a murmur so low Dick barely heard him. Something tingled at the base of his neck and he shook it off.

'About sex. With, uh. With a man.' Dick's tapping foot sped up, and god damn it Mom was wrong. He didn't feel better. He felt like running a mile. 'Not that I'm against that—I know the church doesn't—like—but—' His heart was racing. _Sure, tell the Catholic Church you want to have sex with a man. They won't judge._ 'He's not a good man. He's actually kind of a ... villain.'

He winced, using the word. Dead giveaway.

But the priest only leaned forward, and Dick thought he might be resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't speak, and after a moment the silence got so painful Dick felt he had to say something before it crushed him.

'My family would never approve. _I_ don't approve. I'm pretty sure he's like twice my age, and he used to scare the shit out of me, but at the same time I used to—uh—fantasise about him, you know?' He winced. Of course the priest didn't _know_. He was a priest. Priests didn't fantasise about people. Probably. Hopefully. 'And I guess back then I put it down to hormones but now—um. I met him again recently. We had a kind of … fight. And afterwards … well I guess the—uh, problem—it hasn't gone away.' Dick realised he hadn't taken a breath in too long, and stopped, gasping.

The priest was quiet again. Then, softly he said, 'His name?'

Dick hadn't been to church in so long, but the echoes of footsteps ringing up through the ceiling and the smell of candle smoke and the musty, dry air catching in the back of his throat all added up to a cold, creeping feeling up the back of his spine. A feeling like he needed to leave.

He drummed his fingers on the bench. Swallowed. He couldn't just walk out in the middle of confession. But he couldn't say—it wasn't like it was a common name—

'Wilson,' he finally croaked.

It could be a first name or a last name. And he was sure he'd met other people named Wilson. He wasn't giving anything away. Not really.

The priest straightened, and Dick heard him sigh heavily through his nose. Then—

'This needs privacy,' the priest murmured. 'Wait here.'

'Uh … sure,' Dick said, as the priest stood and opened his curtain. 'Thanks, Father.'

His voice wobbled on the thanks, because he didn't want to wait. He wanted to flee. But he could hear the priest talking to people outside the confession booth, and although he was still speaking quietly, Dick made out the words 'church is closed' followed by shuffling feet.

He set his fists on his knees, trying to slow the regular nervous tapping of his foot. Was the priest seriously closing the whole church just to talk to him? That was … kind of insane.

 _No._ He took a deep breath. Churches closed. Sometimes. The priest was just letting him stay after-hours to talk this out. Which was seriously nice of him, and suddenly Dick felt a spike of guilt for wanting to run away.

The church filled with a soft, empty kind of silence. Dick's fists trembled on his knees.

Slow footsteps approached the confession booth. And for the first time, Dick noticed how heavy those steps sounded. The priest was bigger than he expected. Bigger, but used to having to walk quietly.

A shadow passed over the other side of the curtain. Dick followed the shadow down, and saw scuffed black shoes.

'Well. Now we're alone.'

Alarm bells screamed, but by the time Dick was halfway to his feet, the priest had flicked the curtain open.

 _Not a priest._

Years of tutelage under the world's greatest detective, hundreds of nights spent trawling cramped alleyways and kicking the lights out of thugs and thieves and bastards, a lifetime of carefully hones self-preservation instincts—

All stalled.

Dick's muscles locked. His brain was a blank screen.

He stared up into Slade's uncovered face, and lost his one precious moment, his one chance to strike first and slip away.

By the time Dick raised his fist, Slade had moved faster, striking out with a flat palm to his chest and knocking him back. Dick tried to lunge up again—and instead folded in. He slumped on the bench. _Can't breathe._

As he clutched his chest, Slade reached back and shut the curtain, dropping them into shadow. 'You should pay better attention.'

And _fuck_ that voice—how hadn't Dick recognised it? Speaking softly and quietly, Slade had kept the gravel from his tone but it was still _him_ , so damn obvious.

Something touched Dick's temple.

'You're unobservant when you're agitated.'

It was Slade's fingers, trailing through his hair. Dick jerked away, sucking in what breath he could. He struck out with his heel, aiming for Slade's ankle.

But Slade side-stepped, kicking Dick's shin hard enough Dick yelped—red-hot flares shooting right up to his knee—and then caught Dick's jaw in his hand.

His _bare_ hand. Slade wasn't wearing his uniform. He was in black, sure, but a black shirt and no armour. And no mask. His eyepatch was a shadow across the side of his face, a blur in the semi-dark. Dick's head whirled as Slade closed in until Dick could smell the faint salt of his sweat. Slade pressed Dick's head back against the back wall of the booth, lifting his chin to expose his throat.

Dick threw a punch but Slade caught his fist. 'Easy, Grayson.' His voice was low, a hundred miles from the soft tone he'd used before.

'What the hell are you doing here?' Dick snarled. He caught a flash of white card at Slade's throat and almost choked. 'Pretending to be a _priest_?'

Even in the dark, he didn't miss Slade's smirk. 'When you first walked in, I was almost impressed. The Justice League doesn't know this church is used for below-board operations, so how did _you_ find out?' His fingers tightened on Dick's jaw. 'You _had_ to know. After all, what else could bring Dick Grayson to a broken-down church in the worst part of Gotham?'

Dick's stomach lurched. This was a nightmare. A nightmare, leaning down and crushing him against the seat, shoving his head back against the hard wooden wall, fingers achingly tight on his jaw. He dug down past his hammering heart and managed to snarl, 'Sorry to disappoint you.'

'I didn't say I was disappointed.'

Shivers shot down Dick's spine. He tugged at his captured arm and was surprised when Slade let him go. Surprised enough to yank it back and set it down on the bench, rather than swing it up into Slade's face. And then Slade set his own hand on Dick's leg.

Dick jerked. 'Get off.'

But Slade leaned in closer, his beard brushing the side of Dick's face. 'I don't think so.'

Dick shrank against the back of the confession booth, and then shuddered as Slade pushed his chin to the side so he could press his mouth to the corner of Dick's jaw.

'What're you—'

'So Dick Grayson is a _sinner_ ,' Slade said, not loud, but so close to Dick's ear it cut him off. He let go of Dick's jaw, settling his hand instead in the curve where Dick's neck met his shoulder. His thumb rested in the dip between Dick's collarbones—not hard, but pressingly _there_. Dick swallowed instinctively, and the light pressure felt like being strangled.

This wasn't happening. This was insane.

'Let me go,' Dick managed, teeth gritted.

'If you wanted to get out, you'd have got out.' Slade shifted his hand an inch higher up Dick's leg. 'Fight like you mean it, or …' And he ran his tongue slowly up the column of Dick's neck.

A tiny, strangled noise escaped as Dick exhaled, his toes curling.

Slade hummed, nose pressed behind Dick's ear. 'That's what I thought.'

Any second now, Dick was going to prove him wrong. He was going to fight.

Slade traced his hand up the side of Dick's throat, burying his fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck. His mouth moved under Dick's jaw, beard scratching in a soft, almost ticklish way that made Dick curl his fingers and pant.

Any … any second … any second now.

When Slade moved his leg against Dick's he parted his knees automatically. He barely registered the blood warming his face before it rushed south as Slade lifted his own knee, setting it on the bench between Dick's legs. He groaned at the friction, and next thing Slade's mouth closed over his and Dick was so glad he was sitting down because the room was spinning. And even as Dick's skin crawled at the wrongness—they were in a church, in a damn confession booth, this wasn't _right_ —he couldn't help arching up into Slade's body.

'You're mine.' Slade's hands slipped away to unbuckle his belt. 'You answer to no god but me.'

Dick shivered, raising his hips to chase the friction against Slade's leg. Slade's belt slipped open and Dick closed his eyes tight and he wasn't looking, he wasn't looking—

He glanced down, and Slade's hand was curled around his cock and moving, and Dick tightened his grip on the bench because suddenly he felt pretty shaky, like any second he might slip right off. Precome beaded at the tip of Slade's cock and Slade swiped his thumb over it before lifting his hand and pressing the pad of his thumb to Dick's lips.

Dick flinched. The touch was warm, and sticky, and this close to his face there was a musky smell that made his stomach tighten and sent a feeling like pins-and-needles through his skin. Slade's other hand slipped to the back of his neck, not gripping but steady. A comfort, or maybe a warning. Dick hesitated, then opened his mouth and slipped his tongue out.

Slade let out a breath, and it had just the faintest whisper of a growl in it. Heat flared over Dick's body and he fumbled for the buttons on his jeans as Slade pressed his thumb in his mouth. Slade switched from thumb to fingers, dragging them in and out, first the one, and then two, three at a time. Hard callouses glided wet over Dick's lips, and couldn't help the open-mouthed moan when he finally got his jeans low enough to wrap his hand around his cock.

Drawing back, Slade let his wet fingers trail over Dick's chin. Then, setting his hand on Dick's shoulder, he pushed Dick off the bench and onto his knees. Dick yelped, hands flying up to catch his balance, and landing on Slade's legs.

Heart thumping, Dick looked up sharply. _Fuck. Fuck, I'm on my knees in a church in a damn confession booth with Slade—_

Slade's hand at the back of his neck curled in Dick's hair and drew him forward, pressing Dick's face pressed against the side of Slade's cock, his lips close to the base. When he took a breath he smelled skin and sweat, and shuddered. Slade loosened his grip in Dick's hair. And Dick could still get up and bolt _,_ but instead he fluttered his lips against Slade's cock. He drew back, inch by inch, kissing softly along the length of his cock until he reached the tip.

He glanced up.

Slade was a shadow in the dark, but Dick could swear his single eye was lidded, and watching.

He opened his mouth, nerves buzzing, and closed his lips around just the head, kissing and licking. And every thought of, _This is insane,_ and, _This is wrong,_ and, _I need to stop,_ blurred away into nothing as Dick slipped one hand off Slade's leg to stroke his own aching cock and heat built and built until he was squirming and moaning. Slade's fingers curled in Dick's hair, but he didn't need to push him forward—Dick lowered his head, tongue wriggling, taking more.

He stopped, Slade's cock on the back of his tongue, and drew back, bobbing his head. This cramped box was so damn hot. He was sweating, flushing, shivering. Slade pressed his hips forward and Dick let out a noise, because Slade's cock was at the back of his throat and he was going to choke.

But Slade brushed his thumb over Dick's throat, a slow and comforting sweep, repetitive, almost matching the timing of his strokes. And Dick _could_ breathe, if he timed it right. He could take more. Shuffling forward on his knees, he stretched out his tongue and moved his head closer.

His legs shook. He was close. Close, and trembling, his hand moving faster than Slade's cock sliding in and out of his mouth. The bench pressed against his back, trapping him in place, uncomfortable, and ignored in favour of the rushes of warmth crashing through him.

'Take a breath,' Slade murmured. 'I want you to come with my cock in your throat.'

Dick whined, heat flooding through him. He gasped a breath—and Slade slipped down his throat.

He'd expected to gag, but instead he shuddered and came, reflex tears clouding his vision.

For a moment his mind was a blank. Then jerked back, and Slade let him—let Dick turn sideways and gasp and brush the damp from his eyes. Then he touched Dick's face softly.

'You're not done yet, Dick.'

The tone of Slade's voice sent another feeble ripple of warmth through him. _I could run now._ Dick brushed the thought off. He raised his head, opening his mouth.

Slade made it easy, holding the back of Dick's head and thrusting, fucking into his mouth so all Dick needed to do was keep his mouth open and his tongue out and remember to breathe.

Slade didn't warn him before he came. No sound, no change in speed—just a sudden hot bitterness on Dick's tongue, and Dick spluttered so the rest hit his face, coating his lips and chin.

He dug a tissue out of his hoodie pocket, cleaning up frantically before it could fall on his clothes. 'Shit. Shit, shit, shit.'

Slade touched his cheek.

He dropped to a crouch, bringing Dick level with that one eye, glinting in the dark. 'Next time, you swallow.' He leaned in and kissed Dick hard, tongue sweeping over his lips despite the taste still burning in Dick's mouth. 'Or I bend you over the altar and fuck you.'

Standing, Slade buckled his belt and slipped the white band from his collar. He dropped it between Dick's open knees, before turning and stepping out of the confession booth, closing the curtain behind him.

Dick wiped his mouth again, and wondered how many Hail Marys he needed to say for this.


End file.
